The New Year has come, slipped in whilst the door stood ajar,
Trailing bells and cracked glass baubles in her wake,
A string of threadbare tinsel caught in her knickers.
She discards her clothes, tosses them in wheelie bins as she passes,
One shoe, then the other, a skirt wriggled out of, coat dropped in a puddle.
Bare and pink she moves through the empty street,
To sleep in a corner, a heap of legs and arms,
The crack of a white-blaze firework ripples over the city sky, explodes it all,
Greet it in the morning, a slight rearrangement of numbers, one ticked over,
And yet it’s trickling in, new promises, a chance to do it better this time,
And not begin the year with tinsel in your knickers.